Ch. 11: The Way of the Churches
(Return to Arheled) “Hello?” Ronnie’s voice was dubious as he answered his cell phone. Not many people had his number. “Ronnie Wendy? It’s Hunter Light. You remember you expressed an interest in that invention of mine? Well, I just got done assembling it, and I’m ready for a field test before I get the bigwigs over for a demonstration. Do you want to be there?” “Absolutely.” said Ronnie. “Where is it, at Regional?” “No, it’s actually at the College. I’ll meet you at the College library; it’s a bit confusing here.” Ronnie parked in McDonald’s, across Main St from the College, as the little lot near the library was full. He crossed to the paving-block entrance. Hunter Light was waiting in the foyer and at once led him over to the detached College building. The low brick arches of the building were bordered with marble trim. They went in through a door with gold handles and white panes and up a grey back stair. Hunter opened a grey-white metal fire-door and took Ronnie down a hall with a low ceiling and walls of brick coated in thick layers of white paint. Voices came from computer labs full of black flat-screen monitors, and once or twice a very pretty girl student or two passed them, usually wearing bright blue jeans and bearing backpacks. Low arches held up the building above them, crossing the ceiling every twenty feet. Waxed linoleum squeaked underfoot dreadfully. He took Ronnie into a grey door in an arch with a blank plate beside the room number, over which was taped a bit of paper saying something about Project Number Whatever. The bright white glare of the round ceiling lamps was replaced by a muted grey-white soft glow. “This is it.” Mr. Light said proudly. “Bell, I hope you didn’t touch anything.” Bell, who had been sitting on a chair reading a book, got up with a bounce. “Everything’s fine, Dad.” she said affectionately. “Nobody broke in, and I didn’t turn into She-Hulk, so we’re all set.” “I think Hulk had to do with gamma rays.” said Ronnie. He looked at the large array of grey and white banks that filled most of the room: square, about as big as a Staples copy machine, but with odd grey plastic-sheathed tubes and curved segments going here, there and everywhere. The banks were arranged in a half-circle. Computer screens stood in several places with literal nests of wires running from them to various parts of the invention, and funny-shaped colored rods stuck up in odd angles. A chair or two sat near the keyboards. “Bonnie should be here any minute to help me set up; she’s my lab assistant and she’ll be running the analyser while I do the simulations and results.” Mr. Light said. He adjusted what looked like a strange kind of telescope arm with big satellite dishes that projected out of a window. Insulation was packed around it to keep out the winter air. Outside it was already growing dark. “Position towards Orion and Leo first…cross right vector to celestial equator…good.” He came over to Ronnie. “All right, while we’re waiting for Bonnie, I’ll explain how this works. You remember how I said my simulations picked up a trace of mysterious energy that provides the lacking force needed to bind galaxies together?” “You said it wasn’t gravity, because far more mass than is actually present would be needed to create enough gravity pull.” “Crude, but that’ll do.” said Hunter Light. “Well, this detector is based off the typical mass spectroscope, except that it includes special lenses for ionizing starlight and background radiation, and here and there the particles of the beam of light will pass through electromagnetic fields that sort and analyze the radiation—it’s a bit complicated. But the whole point is to isolate from the background this mysterious energy and amplify it, and hopefully we can obtain some results on its’ nature and composition. Oh, Bonnie, there you are. Bonnie, this is Ron Wendy, one of my students, and you already know my daughter Bell.” “Dad, you shouldn’t drop the rhyme!” scolded Bell. “Bonnie…Ronnie…” “Hi, Bell. Nice to meet you, Ronnie.” said a very thin and long-limbed girl, in clinging shirt and jeans that rather emphasized her slenderness. She had long loose brown hair and a bony, hungry sort of face, but when she smiled she looked quite pleasing. Her grip was stronger than he expected. Folding up her coat she tossed it next to Hunter’s and began exchanging a quick series of extraordinarily technical questions and instructions with him. “Adducts—accurate mass ratio—spectrum comparison—duty cycle—cation—radical cation fragment—“ Ronnie sat down next to Bell. “How have you been?” he inquired of the 11-year-old. “School.” said Bell. “TV. Cooking dinner. Trying not to let my head explode when Dad gets talking.” “The usual.” said Ronnie. “So—we just sit here and wait for the scientists to scientize?” “Whoo.” said Bell. “Active tense possessive of a noun. That’s a good one.” “I take it you’re doing grammer.” “Trying not to.” said Bell. “But I had to cram for a test, so it’s still stuck in my head.” “You pass it?” “We gotta wait for Mrs. Simpson to grade it. She is so annoying. She moves like that Victor/Vector…you know, in Despicable Me…” She got up and began walking in a weird bobbing fashion, a fatuous grin on her face. “Yeah, he had to be about the most irritating villain yet.” said Ronnie. “I liked Gru’s Minions.” “The little yellow guys. They are just '' hilarious.” “Bell.” said Ronnie. “What?” “There are Minions.” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “There are Many Minions.” Bell agreed. “Even worse, the Minions have dominion over us!” “Does this count as annoying?” said Bell in a mock-baby voice, and started patting her cheeks. It was a quote, of course. “Okay, you two, we’re ready.” said Hunter. “What we’re going to do is capture a ray of starlight and pass it through the analysers, and then we have to wait while the data is sorted and we start running simulations.” Ronnie and Bell watched. As far as they could see the only thing that was happening was that all sorts of lights were blinking on and off in the instrument banks and some of the tubes were humming. Bonnie and Hunter at their keyboards rattled fingers over keys, now and again saying something to each other. On the screen images and boxes changed and flickered as the computer reported the progress of the data analysis—the light had already gone through the energy detector. “Background suppression is done.” said Bonnie. “Do you have the spectra sorted?” “Most of the know radiation eliminated.” Hunter replied. “Trace detected…wait, it’s running it through the amplifier now…simulations are starting. Aha! There we are!” All Ronnie saw on the big display screen were a bunch of bizarre looping whorls of red and green amid a background of curved lines taking up most of the screen. “Is that the—binding energy or whatever?” he said. “We’re putting it through the amplifier right now.” Hunter answered. “That’s the galactic spectrum, right there. Now do you see these whorls here? Those are two of the stars of Orion’s sword (the third’s another galaxy; we suppressed that one). The stars are actually millions of light years apart, but they’re still in our galaxy. You see this curve here? That’s not normal. That’s not supposed to be there. It’s a trace presence of a connecting force between two stars. Now we’re going to amplify that—this way—yes! It’s coming up. Bonnie, you getting this?” “What ''is this?” Bonnie exclaimed. “Hunter, look at this! This is '' immense!” Hunter tilted his chair back to see her screen. She had her back nearly turned to Ronnie, and he was able to see her screen. Banded streaks of violent blue were exploding from the green loops and red bars. He gasped. “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! '' We actually trapped some of it! You two, look at this. That’s what’s going on inside the amplifier. It’s reflecting a minute trace of the energy back and forth to amplify it to the point where it can be analysed. We’re actually getting a sample!” Ronnie’s attention was drawn by a vibrating glow from behind. He looked over. Several of the tubes were beginning to flicker from within, as if a pale flame burned inside. Then there was a brilliant flash of white-0violet-blue, like starlight. The computer screens flickered and went out. The room fell into silence. The light was out. The power was out. “No, no, no, no!” Hunter wailed, banging his fists on the table. “Oh, drat. Well, guys, it looks like the show’s over.” “What happened?” said Ronnie. “There was a massive surge from the amplifier.” said Mr. Light blankly. “And then—it’s as if everything imploded. As if it backlashed somewhere and took all the electricity with it.” “Will you need any help?” said Ronnie. Mr. Light buried his face in his hands. “No, I’ll just be up all night trying to reboot the systems. The program has a feature designed to retrieve and freeze information in the case of an interruption to the power supply, so I should still have the data. Bonnie, can you be a nice girl and run Bell home?” “All right.” said Bonnie resignedly. “Just don’t ask me to babysit her.” “I’m nearly twelve, I’m certainly latchkey-age.” said Bell huffily. “Hey, girlfriend!” said Brooke’s sweet soft voice when Bell answered the phone that Sunday. “Brookiee!” Bell squealed. “What’s uuup?” “Oh, sameol’-sameol’. Hey, listen, I know I’ve been like really busy all winter and I’m so so so so so sorry, so you wanna do church again today?” “You better get down here quick then.” said Bell tartly. “It’s half an hour before service starts.” “Right-o! See-you-bye!” and Brooke hung up with uncharacteristic speed. Mr. Light didn’t object, so he drove off by himself and Brooke pulled in the driveway at ten of ten. Bell sauntered out to the car, locking the house behind her. It was the first Sunday of March—finally!—and the grim winter was at last relenting. A low white paleness of snow-fog hung above the deep-white snowpack, etched and eroded around trees and speckled with fallen debris now removed by meltage. Bell’s footprints around the yard were no longer deep pits but level shapes floating in a circle of browny granules on top of the snow. The shapes of the snowpack were soft and half-melted, like ice cream. Soft drizzle was falling and trees and rocks were dark and wet and wonderfully clear and brown-grey—above the haze of snowmelt, that is. The air was damp, warm-cool but very soft. “I thought you were in such a hurry.” reproved Brooke. “Cheer up, St. Joseph’s doesn’t start till 10:30.” “Wait a minute, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to the Catholics.” “Some of them show up at our services, silly. We just stay way in the back and don’t participate.” “We don’t have to stay very long either,” said Brooke as she ran a red light and turned onto Winsted Rd. “It shouldn’t take you long to look around.” “Well, that’s true.” said Bell. “But, you know, there’s an odd thing I’ve been noticing about the churches.” “Like what?” Bell became pensive. “All of them are oriented to the compass. Like St. James with the gargoyles. The tower’s sides, I think, face N, S, E and W—and the gargoyles are at the corners, so they would face the points between. And the wind here seems to come from the NW half the time. Well, here’s the thing. I was going by your church so my dad could get me at the library after school, and I noticed up on top this funny thingy—sort of like teardrops going up, you know, one in the middle going straight up and four others going sideways. Pointing west or northwest—it’s hard to tell when the sun is in the south instead of west.” “Wow, the things you notice.” said Brooke. “So, you wanna just walk the line and see if the others have things pointing in significant directions?” “It might just be coincidence.” backpedalled Bell. “Not with what our weird brown friend said.” Bell giggled. “Our W.B.F. That’s what we should call him. The W.B.F. Then next time he shows up we can just see his face.” “His fault, he won’t give us any other name.” There was no parking near St. Joseph’s, so Brooke parked on the street. As they crossed, Bell stared sharply at every detail of the great Gothic steeple, the roof peak next to it with the tall cross, the big chimney at the corner. She carried her gaze up past the bell louvers, to the mysterious gabled windows and the high needle-like spire of gleaming wet slates. A golden cross—probably brass—surmounted it. The gabled windows drew her. They alternated, one higher, one lower, going around the base of the spire. The points of the gables bore a four-fingered projection, which when she looked closer she realised were carved heads with lion-like open mouths, facing four ways. Because each window was at a different angle, each head pointed a different way. “Not really conclusive, is it?” said Brooke. “I suppose that topographic map would be the only way to make certain,” Bell agreed, “if the churches pointed the way to Temple Fell. But you remember one of the candidates does lie roughly NW of here.” They went inside and looked around for a while. The Catholics had a guitar choir, which rather disgusted the two Protestants, who were used to singing choirs. But the singers did try to play the guitars reverently. Guitar just was not made for church. They sat through the scripture lessons—though the lector called them “readings”—and decided they would leave before the rest of the Mass. “Hey, we already know what St. James looks like inside.” said Brooke. “Let’s go up by St. Anthony’s school. There’s something really cool over there.” “I shudder at your definition of ‘cool’.” “Oh, shut up.” said Brooke fondly. They climbed up Oak Street until it levelled out, nearly even with the church roof. Stone walls terraced the church grounds, one marking the site of the ancient St. Joseph’s, a tiny wooden church destroyed when the new one was built, famous for losing its’ steeple to some high winds. The other, the uppermost, marked the site of the old monastery but was now a parking lot, with a new parish center amidmost. Then, on a little rise, was the long school building of St. Anthony’s, built of brownish bricks and rectangular, with small windows and 70-year-old doors; it had an indelible 1940s-school look. “Why did they call it St. Anthony’s when the church is St. Joseph’s?” Bell wanted to know. “I heard that the Gilbert who built Gilbert High—the first one, not the big newer thing that stands there now—was so anti-Catholic he put in his will that no pupil from St. Joseph’s School could attend Gilbert High. I guess in those days it wasn’t publicly funded but under some trust fund—anyway, the Catholics got sneaky and changed the school name to St. Anthony’s.” “Wow, he must have been a bigot.” “I know, kind of makes you ashamed of your spiritual ancestors, doesn’t it?” They took a driveway that led up behind the school. Bell’s eyes widened. The loveliest little knoll rose before them. Soft damp white snow was receeding from wet grey rocks and short dark-brown maples. The white snowmelt haze mantled the ground. Patches of matted green-yellow turf lay exposed. The knoll ended in a quite abrupt knob of bald rock, and climbing over this and rooted to it like a tree was a masonry grotto. Bell couldn’t take her eyes off it. A steep-faced end of wall on the left side fronted a sloping curve of thick stonework like a hill that curved behind the grotto. Two ornamental cypress stood either side of a deep half-circular recess in the stonework. A perfectly round and fantastically thin arch of stones on end like a crown roofed the grotto’s mouth; behind it a pane of plexiglass kept out rain. A nearly life-size statue of a beautiful woman in simple flowing white garments and hooded mantle, a blue sash about her waist, stood beneath the arch. Low pillars of mortared round pebbles stood at the head of graceful curving masoned steps mounting in a proud sweep up the knoll to the statue; deep snow unshovelled flowed half-melted down them between the low walls of the stair like a river of white. “Isn’t this amazing?” said Bell. “I wish our church had statues like this.” “I…think that’s supposed to be Mary.” said Brooke. “My minister would probably say it’s an example of Maryolatry.” “Then where’s the altar?” said Bell tartly. “If you’re worshipping something you usually put an altar in front of it.” “Yeah, I know. I’m more interested in that stonework.” They headed back to the road and walked through the quiet antique suburb of Church Hill, descending a short but very steep slope to Bell’s church. It looked more squat and fortresslike than ever, but only the fact that the main tower’s battlements had squared merlons facing NSEW and diagonal merlons differently shaped at the corners facing NW etc, seemed to fit Bell’s expectations. “You know,” she said slowly, “on Christmas Eve when I was seeing that marker stone, I sorta felt like the churches were forts, spiritual fortresses. What if they’re all pointing the way to whatever it is they’re guarding?” “Great.” said Brooke. “It could be either NW, SE, SW or NE. Really good pointers.” Bell sighed. “Let’s go look at my mom’s '' church. It might have something besides hammers and urns.” It was a longish trek to the other side of town. They walked back over Church Hill and past the central cemetery, then below Pearson Elementary (where Bell went to school) and up Wetmore Av. It slanted up under the steep shoulder of Street Hill, a cliffy bank grown over with huge privets under a driveway overhanging the sidewalk on the right at first, until it climbed to a level. Beautiful old silver maples rose overhead amid lovely old square townhouses two centuries old. Camp Hill behind its’ trees drew near on the left behind the houses. They went down past the closed old brick school and reached Spencer Hill Rd and Old Baptist Church. It looked in the mist and drizzle even more like a sprawling castle. The steeple cap and the spire of the odd and completely useless second tower with four open arches were capped disappointingly in golden brass knobs. Moving around the front of the church the girls gazed up at the dripping grey stonework of the round belfry tower and the rounded balcony-buttress like an incomplete first story jutting out halfway up. Entire swatches of marshy greenish lawn were emerging from granular snowbanks. A great clipped yew stood at the corner, rising almost to the red sandstone trimwork of the balcony’s kerb. They walked around the yew to the west side of the church, abutting Main St. Across the road Mad River fumed sullenly in his deep bed. Bell stared up at the belfry tower and the queer swinging hammers. “Say, what the heck is that?” Brooke remarked. Bell followed her finger. Jutting from the stonework of the round protruding first story, in the notch between the redstone trim of two pointed windows, a couple feet under the balcony kerb, was a peculiar protruding rock. At first it looked like a jutting finger of jagged sandstone, but the sides were too smooth. Green copper roofed it. “Holy smoke,” said Bell, “that looks like…the bottom of half a ship.” Carved out of the block set into the wall, there indeed protruded the underside and keel of a long and peculiar ship, only half of which was visible. “Noah’s Ark, maybe?” suggested Brooke doubtfully. “Maybe the hammers are actually supposed to be tassels, like on a fringe?” “Never mind that. Look which way it’s pointing!” exclaimed Bell. The keel of the strange ship pointed straight to the NW. “Now do you know which way the Five Churches point?” Bell said triumphantly. “Wait a sec.” said Brooke. “Wasn’t one of those fells we isolated on the map—off in that direction?” “Yes, dummy, what else could the Churches be pointing to?” “Well, we need to be sure.” “That does it.” proclaimed Bell. “Tuesday at the library I copy that map.” Tuesday obligingly rolled around. Bell proceeded to forget all about the library, what with worrying about a big test that was coming up, as well as several days of sudden cold that closed in with thunderous winds. She heard them at night whenever she woke, the swift shout of nearby gusts and behind them, constant and sorrowful, the deep dirge of the distant wind in the trees of the mountain-walls. By Friday, with more flooding rains tapering off and an unexpected schoolless day for some silly teacher’s conference, Bell got Brooke to drive her to the library and both girls pored over the topographic map. “That fell shaped like a sausage…it’s the only one even remotely NW of Winsted.” said Brooke, looking at the long narrow mountain above Crystal Lake. “But it’s almost west.” complained Bell. “West by northwest, I suppose.” “Good thing I brought this.” smiled Brooke, and held up a compass. “Oh, Brookie, what would I ever do without you?” sighed Bell theatrically. They copied the map and headed out at top speed, pushing each other and giggling as they talked about girl things. Soon they had covered the distance to the old Baptist church and were standing under the strange carved ship in the stone. Brooke sighted along it and found it pointed perfectly NW. “Now let’s head over to your church.” said Bell. “If you want to drag me to all five churches, we’re driving.” said Brooke. “It’s only a mile, you sissy.” “Well, we’re not gonna bother with ''your church; it doesn’t have anything.” “That’s still only a mile.” said Bell. “Besides, you need to walk off that fat anyway.” “Boy, if you weren’t my friend…!” Arriving at the Methodist church, they ascertained just for the heck of it that the sun was in the west, and Bell noticed at once that the marker-stone faced almost SW. Brooke was sighting along the line of the front wall of the church, squinting and frowning. “What’s the deal?” Bell said after a while. “This is really weird.” Brooke grumbled. “Those curly arms up there, they seem in line with the main face but they’re not. The wall runs not exactly north but a little off—sorta west of north. And those arms are tilted a little off the line too. They point almost west.” She squinted into the sun, then back up at the tower. The gilded carvings shone yellow in the afternoon sun. “But not true west. Sorta north of west.” Bell pulled out the map. “No…the aqueduct fell is too far north to be in line, and too far south for the Ship to point to it. It’s pointing somewhere, but not there. I bet St. Joseph’s and James are going to point straight for it.” “Wow, look at that river.” Brooke said. Mad River rushed and spumed in his bed beside Main Street, high from the rain, a strange tan-hued dark green. The great hills of snow were nearly withdrawn, and strewn garbage lay exposed here and there. The locust trees that marched down the edge of the steep riverbank were wet and blackly green. “Isn’t it awesome.” Bell agreed. They arrived at the towering Catholic church in due time. Brooke took out her compass and began carefully sighting along the line of the four spires that surmounted the gables on the church’s west side. Peculiar four-armed carvings topped these. “Here’s the funny thing.” she said. “These three all point NW by W—well, more like NW 300.” “So they’re basically pointing more north of west.” “Right for the aqueduct mountain.” agreed Brooke. Bell came over to see. “Holy mackerel. You’re absolutely right.” “So now we know which one is Temple Fell.” said Brooke. “I’m gonna call that Forest kid. He’ll want to hear about this.” “Why don’t you wait until we measure the rest of the churches.” said Bell. “And why do only three point to Temple Fell? Where’s the fourth?” Brooke sighed and put the phone away. “It got knocked or half-broken or something. It doesn’t point the way the others do.” “Where does it point, then?” It took a lot of peering, squinting and lining up with landmarks before Brooke could answer that. In the process she found that the outdoor statue of Our Lady, which stood among rhododendrons behind a low iron fence near the great swell of rock, was on a diamond-shaped cement block that lined perfectly with the third of the four spires. The fourth or northernmost spire was the mismatch, pointing, Brooke found, a little west of north. Bell scrambled up on the brow of stone that edged Church Hill on the west. “I see it, Brooke.” she called. “It’s not the hospital hill, it’s the long one above Gilbert.” “I think Ronnie said that was Street Hill, didn’t he?” “How should I know? He told me once but I’ve forgotten.” Bell admitted. St. James turned out to have a small cross mounted on the rear peak. It was pale stone, standing out against the dark cumulus clouds that were crossing the northwestern sky. When they lined themselves up with it, Bell gasped. “Look! That’s the steeple cross of St. Joe’s!” Right behind the stone cross was the brass crossbar of the steeple cross. But it was not pointing the same way as the stone cross. It was angled a little to the north. “St. James points to the steeple of St. Joe’s!” exclaimed Bell. “Where do the gargoyles point, then?” wondered Brooke. When they sighted along the gargoyles it became plain the northernmost one was pointing NW 330, the same direction as the bent spire, N of NW. But sighting again along the bent spire-tip—after racing back over to St. Joe’s—revealed it to be pointing a little more north. “Then the gargoyles point to the hospital.” Bell was certain. “No, a little north of that. In line with this dark area between these hills—so where does the steeple point?” They walked around in front of the church to the steeple and stood under it, staring up. Stone mounted in swift rugged lines like a sweeping fountain frozen. It was plain the steeple cross’s arms were not in line with the front face of the church. Brooke sighted along it carefully. “It’s halfway between NW 300 and 330—true NW.” she declared. “Let’s go see what lies NW of St. Joe’s.” Bell said, and raced off to the great swell of rock. The girls mounted it, and glancing back at the steeple (despite a white pine that got in the way), lined themselves up. When she was satisfied Brooke sighted NW along the compass. “That’s…creepy.” she said. “It’s pointing at the Soldiers’ Tower on the hill above the library.” said Bell. “This is so weird. It’s like this church was designed on purpose to point to important spots.” “''Now'' can I call Forest?” said Brooke. She hunted up the number on her call list. “Hi, Forest? Oh, yay, you’re in. Um, listen…” She excitedly described their findings. “Put him on speakerphone, I wanta hear.” said Bell. Forest’s odd husky voice sounded weird coming from nowhere on the open hilltop. “Hey, I’ve been, I’ve been with the Man in Brown a lot, and he told me the Nine Hills. The one with the tower is Camp Hill, the hospital is on Cobble Hill, and that round stony summit just above the hospital is The Cobble. It has a second summit north of it, above Indian Meadow, called Second Cobble. So the gargoyles are pointing between the Cobbles.” “I just realised,” said Bell, “St. Joe’s is the exact middle of the Five Churches.” “And so it points the way.” said Forest. “And we know which hill is Temple Fell.” Brooke finished. Forest hadn’t gone to school in a month. All day he would sit around the library, reading or pulling his carefully-rolled-up paintings from a tube and penciling or inking in key features to aid his brush. The Stars were almost completely finished. He looked at it in full as little as he could; its’ unbearable beauty, though only a shard of the splendour of what he saw on Christmas Eve, was still potent enough to bring that tremendous memory rushing back. And only in certain moods did he want it to do that. The day after he got Brooke’s call Forest headed downstairs into the adult room, not making eye contact with anyone, to pore over the topographic map. No one saw him or noticed him. No one ever did. Once he had walked into the staff lounge when the three librarians, including the gentle but rather sinister director Mrs. Linda, were having lunch, and found when he accidentally sneezed that when he wasn’t making eye contact and didn’t want to be seen, he was neither seen nor heard. But he didn’t do that again; it was much too nerve-wracking. He flipped to the map of the Winsted quadrangle. The familiar shape of the Long Lake, like a stooped thin man with a long hat-brim and a long nose staring at the ground with hands behind his back, made him smile a little. He took a pamphlet and lined the straight edge up with the Methodist dot. It was evident at once that the Methodist church was not pointing at Temple Fell. Even the narrow SW end of the sausage-like mountain was too far north of a straight line slightly north of west. So the Methodist church was pointing at something else. He isolated St. Joseph’s and St. James without too much difficulty. According to Brooke, her compass had two sections between N and W, which she called “NW 300 and 330.” As the map’s edges went straight north, he soon figured out the angle to hold the paper against the St. Joseph’s dot. Bell burst in about them, having decided to skip school herself. She saw him instantly, whether he looked at her or not, and after he frantically shushed her they took the Atlas downstairs into the history room. “Wow, that’s good thinking, Forest.” she said when he told her about the Methodist church. “So let’s see…OK, look. From St. Joe’s, three of the west spires pointed NW 300. That’s kind of W-NW. Right on line for the middle of Temple Fell. And the mismatch was a little W of N—that ridge right here where it starts getting lower was what we saw in that direction.” “Street Hill.” said Forest. “Or something on Street Hill.” “Yes, and look at the way St. James is laid out. The cross we saw was almost at the rear, and it lined up perfectly with St. Joe’s steeple. And the steeple cross was dead on line for the Tower on Camp Hill.” “That’s not NW 300.” “No, it’s true NW. And the gargoyles point, like this,” she lined up the paper, “NW 330. Which aims right for…what was this, The Cobble?” “Uh huh.” said Forest. “North of it, that summit says Spencer Hill but they’re wrong, cause that’s 2nd Cobble.” “Cool. No, wait, it doesn’t quite point at the Cobble. More like between…right at this high spot just north of Cobble.” “Hey, I just thought.” said Forest. “Oh no, Forest is thinking.” quipped Bell. Seeing the confused look he gave her, she waved her hand. “Go on. What were you going to say?” “Oh…um…oh yeah. Where do the others point?” “Other what? Oh, gargoyles? Hmm. That’s an angle I never thought about. Let’s extend the paper line down here…hmm, just the wilds of West Hill.” “Sand Bank.” said Forest, peeling up the paper. “Look, the line clips the edge of Sand Bank Burying Ground.” “Um, that says Forest View Cemetary.” “It’s important.” said Forest. “The Man in Brown took me there.” Bell was turning the paper so the edge ran at right angles to the former direction, SW-NE. “Oh my gosh. Look, it points right to Wintergreen Island! Where you live!” “Not really.” said Forest. “Look, it’s a little north of the island.” “Yeah, but the only thing on that line is the Little Red Schoolhouse way over by Platt Hill, how is that important?” “And Strong’s Island.” said Forest. “And this big high hill east of Second Bay.” “The one Mr. Sherlock Lake is bending his head down to stare at?” giggled Bell. “Look, Sandy Cove points right to it.” “That must be Pratt Hill.” said Forest. “But NE there’s only this Wallens Hill and…oh wait, look, it points right down part of Wallens Hill Rd.” “Then I guess we gotta go on a bike ride there.” “Temple Fell first.” said Bell. “Oh! The steeple cross. Let’s see where the other end of that points.” She traced the line E-SE. “Hmm…this must be West Hill proper, this high steep one…” “Featherlock!” exclaimed Forest. “Whaaa…? Forest, what is a…” “Featherlock Swamp.” Forest said, stumbling over himself. It’s—Brown took me past it—it felt weird, it felt like it was…something.” “Featherlock.” murmered Bell dreamily. “That is such a nice word….it sounds like some dashing noble prince, Lord Featherlock….” “Girls.” muttered Forest. Bell gave him a dry stare. “Boys.” she said in the same tone. Both of them snickered. “Okay, let me write this down, this is really interesting. Old Baptist—hammers and a boat facing NW. New Baptist—looks like a castle. Methodist—points who knows where, has milestone for Temple Fell. St. Joe’s—points to Temple Fell, Street Hill, Soldier’s Tower and Featherlock Swamp. St. James—points to St. Joe’s steeple, and in the other direction, hmm…just this shoulder of Wallens Hill above Regional and straight down the valley. Gargoyles point to Cobble Hill, Wallens Hill Rd, Pratt Hill (or the Red Schoolhouse, or both), and—Sand Bank Cemetary. Are you sure that’s the name?” “Mr. Brown called it that.” said Forest. “He says it links to the Graves of Arheled.” “Oh my gosh, that was the name you were looking up!” “Yeah.” said Forest. “You know, the ice is getting thin on the lake. And there’s no snow on the island.” “Whoopee! We might get to find Temple Fell this week!” cheered Bell. Travel Lane was also realising that the snow was thin. The swamp was still deep, but the knoll under the pines had had thin snow in the first place and now it was bare. She headed through the pines to see how her dad’s three pails were doing: he always insisted on tapping the old maple on the other side of the grove and boiling the sap down. It never made more than a couple gallons, but it kept him busy. She was surprised to hear the odd sound of singing as she drew near the old tree. It didn’t sound like her dad; he had a thin wavery old voice that was kind of irritating. This voice was low and rumbly. The tune was an odd, rambling, repetitive one such as a man on a long boring walk might hum. '' '' “Hi ho and a roundelay '' ''There’s never ‘nough hours are in the day '' ''Hi ho and a roundelay '' ''Hi ho— '' ''Hi ho and a roundelay '' ''There’s too many things to do today, '' ''Hi ho and a roundelay, '' ''Hi ho—“ '' She went around the tree and saw, not entirely to her surprise, the man in brown. The day was mild and damp, and he wore no hat. His shortish hair was more of an iron grey than she remembered. He was sitting on a great boulder, his strange lined face lifted to the sun. “Oh, hello.” she said. “The time is passing, Travel Lane.” he said. “What do you mean?” “I mean what I said, and I said what I meant. You’re a Lane, aren’t you?” “Yes, I thought you already knew that.” “I know far more than you would imagine, Travel.” he said. “The earth is stirring and the streams are restless, and the Fell Winter is loosing his grip at last. Not as bad as ''the Fell Winter, of the Fall of Nargothrond; that one had snow and cold from November to March. Five months. New England hasn’t come close to that in a hundred years.” “I don’t know.” said Travel dubiously. “I seem to remember winters with snow in April.” “Oh, back in ’96, you mean? You must have been only a tot! That was indeed a Fell Winter. Snow fell in November, and every week or so another storm, culminating in the April blizzard. 115 inches, they say! This one, though it is Fell, hasn’t even equaled it—would have, if there was snow this March instead of rain and rain and rain. Best go hiking while you may.” “I don’t hike very much.” “Nor bike very much, nor walk very much. What do you do, go to the gym?! What a waste of money.” “I get a full workout that way.” Travel defended herself. “Well, you’re not going to find the Lost Caves of Colebrook by pumping on a treadmill, kiddo. In fact, a lass like you wouldn’t find those caves if they were under her nose. When you go, I suggest you take Ronnie. He is the finder, the one who smells things out. I needed little calling with him!” “Oh, you know Ronnie?” “Of course I know Ronnie.” the man in brown answered tartly. “I also know the Three who watch him.” He tightened his mouth. “Wild got through, but so far I am stymied. The weird sisters are strange folk and no knowing what they might know or do. I’m not always sure whose side they’re on.” “Are they really that weird?” Brown gave her a flat, gloomy stare. “Oh, Travel, Travel, are you still bumping along down there? Will you even have the sense to climb up Temple Fell, or are all my efforts wasted, and the Six be incomplete? Well, no matter. Your grandmother may have to do—the last heir of the Lanes doesn’t even know about weirds, for all she reads Tolkien.” “I do, too!” she said, piqued. “A weird is a curse or a doom, isn’t it, like when Glam said to Grettier, ‘Now I lay my weird on thee?’ Are these Weird Sisters witches, like in Macbeth? Or are they—I don’t know—curses incarnate?” “Ah, there is some hope, after all! Good, good! I can’t, after all, read your heart, you know.” “Then what are they? Furies, Fates?” '' '' ''“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket '' ''Seventeen times as high as the moon! '' ''Where she was going I couldna’ help askin’, '' ''For in her shraw hand she carried a broom. '' ''Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I, '' ''Where are you going to up so high? '' ''‘To sweep off the stars from out of the sky!’ ''” Somehow that nonsensical song sent a cold chill into Travel. “Could she really?” she said before she could help herself. “One who regards the stars as cobwebs upon the pristine glass of the heavenly spheres is a person to be feared indeed, hunted like harts and burned like heretics. Far better, Travel, to walk with bowed head and never notice the Stars, than to hate them as cobwebs and sweep them like straw.” “But who is she? And is she…loose?” “Ah, you see at last.” the man in brown said gravely. “Yes, she is. The name she goes by is the Witch of Winchester.” “I thought she was just a petty loom-bewitcher.” “She is a witch, Travel. A witch is one who bridges the chasm that was laid down for our protection, who bows down to Satan and offers him service, knowingly or not. Do not listen to the Wiccans babble of nature. Do not believe the shamans when they speak of energy. It matters not whether or not they have power; they have bowed down to the Devil and they should be burned alive.” “Even if they don’t know it’s the Devil?” Travel protested. “I mean, I know a couple of Wiccans and they’re good people, I mean—“ “Burning was always reserved for those who practiced true magic and were not found to be mere charlatans. Though if they held the candle to the murder, are they not guilty as well? Law takes no reck of motives. Law deals with deeds. And the law of all societies of basically good men has ever been that witches are deserving of the death.” “But…” “I see.” Brown mused, gazing at her. “You say that because Melissa is a nice and charming person and a friend that you like, that she cannot possibly do anything wrong or be ever deserving of divine condemnation, and certainly not so harsh a thing as to be burnt alive.” His voice went heavy, hard as stone, strong as doom: “You are wrong. Hell swallows multitudes of good and kindly people, who passed from this world in the state of mortal sin. “So you think witchcraft a tame and harmless thing, and shamans a quaint relic of a colorful culture, and the Ouija a mere pastime like children’s party games? Then see, little Travel, just what it truly is!” The thundering voice suddenly ceased. So did light. So did the world. So did everything on which her mind leaned, all the unconscious props of scenery and house and human faces, solid ground, a frame of reference. Her mind was slowly and horribly standing on its’ head. Everything that meant anything, the solid fundamentals of reality that keep one sane, all that is supposed to be such and so, wasn’t. It was choking. It was terrifying. It was worse than any vertigo. The world slowly and horribly distorted, slowly and horribly inverted and warped, every support gone and deformed. It was so far beneath description her memory ever after slid away from recalling it, as from a void in reality itself. Sound and sight and color crashed back upon her like a wave. Travel was on her hands and knees, her soul shuddering in utter recoil, vomit belching out of her mouth. She threw up again and again. Her mind felt shattered. Her soul felt polluted. Gasping sobs broke out of her between the heaves. The man in brown placed his hands on her head. The paroxysms stopped. Still shaking in every nerve, but sane, she got up from the ground. Patches of wet mud discolored her knees. “That is the place that witches tap into.” the Man in Brown said softly. “One instant’s glimpse of it through a mirror has reduced you to pieces. Yet witches call it down upon us with every spell and energy charm. Thank God, most do not know what they do; but some do, and do it willing.” The very thought of anyone seeking that out on purpose sent nausea recoiling through her again. It was like seeing someone hungering to be raped or tortured. It was against nature. It was beyond thinking. It was too vile for words. “You understand now why good men will burn witches?” the voice of Brown fell like drops of gentle balm into her tortured heart. Travel could only nod. Brown rested one hand upon her heart. Healing spread from it. Slowly an exhausted peace came upon her, as when recovering from a violent illness. “You showed me Hell.” she accused. “I wish all men could be so shown it.” he answered. “But if they were, so great would be their repulsion their wills would no longer be free; and they must choose God by rejecting that which seems good to them in the moment of temptation. So in His great mercy He veils Hell from us and the Damned may not look out; save when their faces are revealed in the graver sins of Men. Most witches do not know what they are doing, and if they fully came to know it would reject it with disgust. But some do know, Travel. Some of them know what they are doing; and they, they indeed should be burned. She was one of such. Even when she was small and petty, she knew. Now she is old, very old, and evil beyond all cure. She is of the Living Damned.” “The Witch of Winchester?...but she was back in Colonial days.” “Those who achieve such level of evil do not die, but haunt their own corpses.” said Brown. “She spoke to Forest on Samhain Night, and gave me this message: the Door of Night is open.” “No…” whispered Travel. “There was a sleepless ward upon that Gate!” “Yet it stands open, and cannot be shut again.” Brown said grimly. “Make no mistake, Travel. The Road alone walks between him and us, unless help unlooked-for comes, or the Herald should return. But the Fell Winter’s hand is broken, and folk are free to walk the woods again. I would do it soon…half March is still before us. Well, Travel, a blessed St. Patrick’s Day to you!” The next day was amazingly warm. Brooke felt the sun on her skin and laughed aloud for the sheer joy of being warm. Her job kept her busy all morning as it was Friday, and when she got out of work she felt hot and irritable and actually took a cold shower. She got out of the bathroom to hear her phone playing Carrie Underwood (her new ring tone; next time she was going to upload that Aduniac chant from Weathertop they played while Nazgul advanced) and got it on the fourth ring (victory!). “Hello?” Dead silence. “Hellooo?” she said a little irritably. There were a few odd scratchy noises like someone with a cold, and then a small husky boy’s voice saying “Um….uh…Brooke?” “This has to be Forest.” said Brooke. “Yes, it is Brooke talking.” “Yeah. It’s Forest. Um.” She waited, and then said very kindly, “What is it, Forest? It must be pretty important for you to call.” “Temple Fell.” said Forest. “The snow’s gone. I mean, um, we can go there now.” “You seem pretty nervous.” Brooke observed. “Is something happening?” “Brown was fretting about the snow.” “Hmm,” said Brooke, looking at her calendar, “Yes, tomorrow would be good. Too late today, it’s already about 2:30. I’ll call Bell, all right? We’ll try to arrange for about 11 in the morning. We’ll meet at the library.” “Good. Um, okay, bye.” Click. “Boy, that kid is not a phone person.” said Brooke as she dialed Bell. “Shyest boy I’ve met. Hi, can I talk to Bell, Mr. Light? This is Brooke. How are you?...Oh, nothing much. Bell? Heyyy, girl! You’ll never guess who called me.” “Kevin.” said Bell’s pert voice. “No, you ninny! It was Forest.” “Wow.” said Bell. “For him, that must’ve been like going cliff diving. What’s the emergency?” “He says the snow is thin enough to hike through. I shoulda thought of that yesterday when I saw the forecast! Do you know, it was so awesome warm today I snuck out back after work—there’s an old drain pond hidden in bushes, nice and deep and clean, and I actually went for a dip.” “You did not! The water must be freakin’ cold!” “It was.” giggled Brooke. “I pretty much slid in up to my shoulders, gasped, and got out real fast. But it feels so good after you dry off you want to go in again. Anyway, we’ll have to plan a hike tomorrow.” “Temple Fell.” “Yes, what else. Forest seemed to think it urgent we get up there as soon as possible. I told him 11 at the library.” “Hold on. Lemme ask Dad.” and there was the clatter of a dropped phone and Bell’s voice yelling in the distance, mingled with Hunter Light’s distracted answers. Then Bell pounded back to the phone. “Hey, he says I can go, I told him it was a small group and we had a leader.” “You are such a fearful liar.” “And I’m not even Irish, too, isn’t it amazing? But I’m not lying, Forest is 15 and he said one time he was the man of his house.” “Better bring those pullover boots.” said Brooke. “There’s bound to be mud everywhere, and puddles. Yeah, I wanna look at that map one more time before we go. See ya at 10:30, I guess.” “Ronnie!” someone hailed him as he stalked down the granite staircase in front of St. Joseph’s after the 8:00 Mass the next day. “Hey, Travel!” he beamed, recognizing the dark-haired ordinary-looking girl waving at him from a car. “Were you at Mass? I didn’t see you.” “I did think of popping in on the off chance you were there.” she said. “We have got to trade numbers. Hey, listen, do you know a guy called Brown? Kind of tall, trampy-looking, in a brown leather coat with weird deep eyes?” “Yeah.” said Ronnie guardedly. “Okay, this is gonna sound crazy, but you need to watch out for your landladies…” “I know.” said Ronnie. “What do you mean, you know??” “There’s something about them,” he said, his eyes gazing off somewhere else, his voice growing low and abstract as he talked. “They act all nice and fluffy, but…I feel an impulse to retreat into a shell when they’re talking to me. Their eyes…” He frowned as he thought. “Watching.” he said at last. “Wary. Asking me where I’ve been and what I’m doing, all in most innocent little-old-lady style…but behind it, they’re dead serious. It feels…like they’re afraid.” “Afraid of you?” “It’s kind of hard to define,” he said, rubbing his forehead, it’s the accumulation of three months of being thrown into closer contact with them by this winter, snow shoveling and being invited in for cookies and such, and noticing. But not afraid of me. More like they’re afraid I’ll make a wrong step, like I’m treading blind down a path they’ve carefully laid out. What did he say they were?” “You might as well get in here,” said Travel, “and I’ll park. This is gonna be a long talk.” Ronnie climbed in and she pulled up to the side and shut off the engine. Then she began to tell him what she had heard from the Man in Brown. Ronnie’s shrewd questions soon drew out of her the previous conversations, the winterberry, the lineage of Lane, the voice in the darkness, Wayfinder, the Wild Man. Ronnie told her about the shared dream with Forest, the odd words of the Man in Brown, and his own queer encounter with the mocking stranger who questioned the very nature of Reality. “Ronnie, have you ever heard of a place called Temple Fell?” Ronnie gave her a very intent stare. “Lara asked me about that…so did Forest…I would guess, from Brown’s words, a mountain two miles from the Methodist church. You heard of any strange, queerish, uncanny places?” “What makes you think it would be uncanny?” Ronnie shuddered. “If you had ever seen that frost-ridden being, you wouldn’t ask that. He wasn’t Brown. He was far weirder. Anything of this much importance would feel creepy.” “Hey…” said Travel slowly, “yeah, I do. I know a girl called Cypress, she lives in the purple house (and it’s haunted, she tells me), and she was telling me of a mountain out by Mad River Dam that feels…uncanny, she said. I think she described it as being west of the dam and above Rugg Brook Reservoir.” “West…” Ronnie muttered. “Yes, there is a mountain there. It’s pretty steep and I’ve never climbed it, but there’s an aqueduct tunnel under it I followed last year. Dead end, though; Rugg Brook drains into it by floodgates in the tunnel roof. It’s like a wall of pines when you see it from the lake. The whole place feels…remote, strange, like an atmosphere of an alien place. Not like New England. Like some last shard of some ancient land, blocked on all sides by commonness but itself lingering weird. I think we ought to go there.” “The last place I want to go is a creepy mountain.” “If it really is Temple Fell,” said Ronnie in a ominous voice, “I’m going there. You can come…or you can go on and do ordinary mundane things like everyone else.” “You are a really awful person, Ronnie.” said Travel. “I suppose I’ll never have a moment’s peace unless I come along.” “Our friend in brown did say I was the one who found out things! You are one of the six, I am certain. Well, let’s get something to eat, and then head up. Good thing I brought my boots.” “Boots!” exclaimed Travel. “We have to stop at my house. I didn’t bring any. Do you know to get close to it…?” “Our best bet, I’m afraid, is to park at the Dike and pick our way along. I know where it is generally. Do you know, I can actually see the ground?” “Yeah, I can’t believe it. Yesterday must’ve been like 70. I actually broke out a strap tanktop for the heck of it.” “Girls.” laughed Ronnie.